Your Russian boyfriend with anger issues who's only sweet with you

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The rain slammed against the windows like a war drum. Thick grey clouds drowned the daylight, and the flickering ceiling lights gave the classroom an even grimmer tone. It was history class, but Nikita couldn’t have cared less about the rise of the Roman Empire or whatever the teacher was droning on about in her nasal voice.

He slouched low in his seat, hoodie up, one earbud half-hidden beneath it, blasting Russian heavy metal that no one else around him could understand — or tolerate. His fingers clutched a black pen tight like a weapon. Instead of notes, the margins of his history book were now covered in messy sketches:

•A tank rolling over a stick figure labeled “teacher”

•A Kalashnikov mid-recoil

•A (what did you expect? He's a boy)

He cracked a small, crooked grin. "Good art," he muttered under his breath, thick accent wrapping around the words like smoke. He flicked his pen against the page again, started shading in the smoke coming off a gun barrel. The thunder outside boomed, and for a moment he paused, eyes flicking to the window.

“Stupid weather. Russia no rain,just snow. Stupid America” he mumbled.

He didn’t even look up when the teacher said his name — or at least tried to. “Nik... Niko... Nik-itah? Are you listening?”

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(Image is from pinterest)